Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) Read Free

harmoniously with the geometric-shaped flower and herb beds lined with boxwood in the French style. These, with the paths radiating from a central fountain and a stone arbor covered with ancient grapevines, showed the influence of that long-ago tour of Europe. The plants chosen by Violet years ago were all scented, from the climbing roses and wisteria on the walls and huge old sweet olive and cape jasmine shrubs that filled the corners to the groupings of petunias, nicotiana, and early lilies in the beds. Their sweet fragrance, along with the gaslights that cast flickering shadows across the center fountain while leaving secret alcoves of pleasure here and there in darkness, gave the impression of a sensual, even seductive, retreat.
    Joletta had always been curious about Violet, what she was like, what she had been thinking of when she built her courtyard garden, what had happened to her to cause her to open her shop with this fragrant haven behind it. As a historian, Joletta had a special interest in the Victorian period with its momentous events as well as its strict mores and conventions. Violet’s conduct in that time had seemed so unusual, especially among the aristocratic Creoles of French and Spanish descent in the Vieux Carré, where trade was repugnant as an occupation for a man, much less a woman.
    Joletta had asked Mimi about it several times, and her grandmother always promised to tell her the whole story when the time was right. Somehow, that time had never come, just as the moment had never been right to pass on the formula.
    There were moving shadows in the far end of the courtyard. A whispering sound could be heard above the clatter and tinkle of the fountain, as if branches were scraping against the old bricks of the wall in the night wind. Or as if there were phantom lovers whispering in one of the shrubbery alcoves.
    It was definitely eerie to be there alone in the dark; she should have waited until morning, Joletta thought. Even then, it would not have been the same with the shop closed for the funeral and the weekend afterward. There would be no cheerful ringing of the shop bell, no new perfume being mixed, no laughing greeting or loving scolding from Mimi, no smell of something rich with onions, celery, and garlic in a well-browned roux simmering in the upstairs kitchen. Strange to think that it would never be that way again.
    Joletta really didn’t want to enter the emptiness of the upper rooms. It was an intrusion, or so it seemed. And yet, what was one more? The others had already been there looking, thumbing through Mimi’s books and papers, rummaging in her closets and drawers. Her own search could be no more of an invasion. Passing along the upper gallery to the narrow entrance doors, Joletta used her key to let herself into the town house.
    She switched on the light in the parlor, but did not hesitate among the formal furnishings of rosewood and gilt, marble and ormolu. Skirting a square table centered under a Baccarat chandelier, she walked into the connecting bedroom.
    It looked like something from a museum, with a Louis XIV scrolled bed, a dressing table of similar design, and faded draperies of old rose satin over curtains of yellowed lace. Here, as in the parlor, was a fireplace mantel of Carrara marble that surrounded an ornate cast-iron coal grate. Against one wall was a tall chest of carved and gilded wood. In the bottom section of it were drawers of different sizes, but the top was made up of a series of small compartments hidden behind double doors painted in the style of Boucher, with pastoral scenes of amorous shepherds and shepherdesses and hovering cherubs.
    Mimi had called this piece of furniture her memory chest. In it were the items she particularly cherished: a seashell she had picked up at Biloxi on her first trip there as a child; the gifts of fans and silver-backed mirrors and other tokens received from members of the Mardi Gras krewes who had called her out to dance at